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by travelling_with_the_winchesters



Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Cute Dean, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Kissing, Making Out, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 22:24:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4539693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/travelling_with_the_winchesters/pseuds/travelling_with_the_winchesters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean comes back to the motel after a rough hunt and the Reader has to patch him up. Cue fluff, humor, and some Winchester loving. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my FIRST. EVER. FANFIC. Let me know what you think and don't hate me for the cliffhanger ending! I promise you all I will post a part two sometime this week!
> 
> Let me know what you think!
> 
> I love you all!!!! <3
> 
> Xoxo,  
> Becca (travelling_with_the_winchesters)

Home  
A “Supernatural” Fanfiction  
by: travelling_with_the_winchesters  
Chapter 1: Heat Of The Moment

The door to the small motel room in Wayne, Nebraska reluctantly creaks open. Your eyes dart up from your research and you instinctively reach for the silver handgun resting amongst methodically scattered books and papers on the dingy table you are sitting at. You grab the handle and unlock the safety in one swift motion, ready to aim and fire at a moment’s notice, when a familiar face peers through the doorway.  
  
Dean walks in with a limp, covered in blood and dirt, and flashes you a sleepy smile.  
  
“Hi my love,” you exhale as you flip the safety lock back on, and place the gun gently atop the table.  
  
You cross the room to meet him, throwing your arms around his neck. He groans in approval, leaning into the embrace. He plants a soft kiss on your forehead and you smile. You untangle your arms from Dean and reach your hand up to let it brush against the warmth of his cheek. He wraps his arms around your waist as he sighs, nuzzling into your hand, looking down at you with his beautiful green eyes. You let your fingers glide gently over them and they flutter closed, laden with obvious exhaustion. Your hand lingers; his skin is smooth, with the exception of a bit of roughness from the stubble he likes to keep around his mouth and chin. You breathe in a wonderful mix of cologne and sweat, and faint remnants of gunpowder and whiskey. It smells like love and the inside of the Impala. Most of all it smells like home.  
  
The two of you stay there for a few moments more until you are thrown back into reality as Dean winces, then swears under his breath.  
  
You pull away and laugh as you throw a supporting arm around his shoulder.  
  
“What’s the damage this time?” you ask him with a smirk as you lead him to the tacky floral couch.  
  
He sinks down characteristically un-graceful and moans out a single word, “leg.”  
  
You snatch a bottle of whiskey and a first aid kit from the side table next to the couch, and pull out your gun, placing it down so you don’t accidentally hurt yourself or anyone else, then sit down beside him. You prop his leg up on your lap and survey the jagged rip in the leg of his jeans, displaying an ugly gash in his thigh underneath. You suck in a breath and mouth the word “ouch,” knowing that dealing with this wasn’t going to be pleasant for either of you. As much you love him, seeing him hurt makes your heart ache in ways you can’t explain. All you want is for him to stay safe and feel at peace and loved, but the glamorous life of a hunter’s girlfriend doesn’t allow for that kind of certainty. However, that never stops you from trying.  
  
“Where’s Sam,” you question, reaching for the button on his jeans.  
  
“He had to take care of something,” he says.  
  
“By ‘something,’ do you mean a body?” you ask exasperatedly.  
  
“Maybe,” he replies with a small shrug. “Either way, we’ve got the room to ourselves for a while,” he says enthusiastically and gives you two thumbs up as he mouths the words “awesome.”  
  
A smile plays at your lips as you pull down his zipper carefully, trying not to bump against his wound. Dean places his arms behind his head, and twines his fingers together behind his disheveled brown hair. He leans back onto a pillow, never taking his gaze off you for a single second. You hesitate for a moment before hooking your fingers in his belt loops. Dean doesn’t miss a beat.  
  
“Something the matter?” he asks teasingly.  
  
You roll my eyes at him and begin to remove the filthy denim, revealing a pair of baby blue boxers underneath. You shift in my seat a bit, reminding yourself to focus on the task at hand and not the task you want to be, ahem, in your hand. A few more seconds of tugging before his jeans are in a lump on the floor and you are reaching for a piece of gauze.  
  
“Hold still,” you tell him sternly as you grab the bottle of whiskey.  
  
“I love it when you take control,” he retorts jokingly.  
  
“Oh do you now?” you play along and make eye contact with him, dousing the gauze in Dean’s favorite, fiery liquor.  
  
“This might hurt,” you say.  
  
“That’s okay baby, I like it rough,” he jests.  
  
You snort and giggle a bit, and Dean lets out a chuckle before quickly grimacing in pain.  
  
“The sooner I do this, the sooner it will feel better.” You say seriously, readying the gauze over the wound.  
  
“That’s what she said,” he whispered.  
  
You grin at his blatant childishness, and take a breath. Then, you press down.  
  
“Sonofabitch!” Dean yells as his whole body jerks from the stinging sensation the homemade antiseptic caused.  
  
You grit your teeth, distressed, and place your free hand on his other leg and run your fingers lightly over his inner thigh to distract him from his obvious discomfort. You watch as Dean begins to relax under your touch, and soon, you relax too. A short while later you remove the gauze from the wound, and clean dried blood off the surrounding area. Dean exhales as you place the blood-soaked piece of cotton to the side, and continue your ministrations on his opposite thigh.  
  
“See,” you say soothingly, looking up at his face to find his eyes closed and lips slightly parted, “that wasn’t so bad.”  
  
“Mmmmm,” he moans.  
  
You grin to yourself, pleased with his response, allowing yourself to take your time to make sure the rest is done right. You continue on by putting antibiotic cream and butterfly Band-Aids on the cut to hold it together so it will heal cleanly. You could swear Dean looked like an angel: although, you knew now that angels were nothing like the kind you had heard of in days past. You thought that angels had been peace and light, not incorrigible assholes that only care about themselves. Even so, seeing Dean lying there in bliss, you couldn’t help but think back to those images of love and serenity.  
  
Once the cut is bandaged, you put the items back in the first aid kit, take a quick swig of Whiskey, and screw the top back on. You start to carefully lift Dean’s leg off of yours, trying your best not to disturb him in this rare hypnotic state, but he stirs and sits up with a sleepy smile.  
  
“Thank you,” he says grabbing your small hands with his larger, calloused ones.  
  
“Of course Dean,” you reply and give his hands a loving squeeze.  
  
You were expecting him to release his grasp but instead he pulls you towards him slowly, his green eyes locked with your (e/c) ones, steadfast and intense. You easily slide into his lap and sigh, immediately tangling your hands in his soft, sandy hair and giving a light pull. He groans at the gesture, and doesn’t take any time to push your shirt up and off your body, and fling it onto the floor.  
  
You sigh breathlessly, enraptured, as he spreads his hands across your back and his lips crash into yours with an unmatched hunger. You moan as you feel his warm tongue find it’s way into your mouth. Lips locked, he moves one of his hands to your side, and the other to the side of your face, pulling you into him. You run your fingertips up and down his back lightly, before you find the hem of his shirt and tug on it lightly if to say “take me off!”  
  
Dean takes the hint and discards the garment with ease. He stands up suddenly, his strong, tanned arms carrying you with him, and you wrap your legs around his hips for support. Intertwined, you clumsily stumble onto the bed, your lips never leaving each other, your eyes never faltering.  
  
“Dean,” you whine as he presses himself flush against you.  
  
You sink even further into the mattress and he grabs both your hands, pulling them up over your head. He slips his fingers in-between your own and holds them there. It feels like his lips are everywhere all at once: peppering kisses on your jaw, nipping at your neck, sucking on your collarbone and colliding with your mouth.  
  
“Dean,” you sigh, “please…”  
  
“Please what?” he replies as he lets your hands go, and takes a break to catch his own breath.  
  
His light eyes are encased by lust and his cheeks are flushed pink, making his freckles pop. He looks down at you, smirking with slightly swollen lips and you laugh, putting both hands to the side of his beautiful face, and pull him into a soft kiss.  
  
“Make love to me, Dean Winchester,” you plead with a whisper.  
  
“Oh God yes,” he moans, as his fingertips find the clasp of your bra and his lips find your neck.  
  
Just as you begin to get caught up in the heat of the moment, the motel door swings open and Sam barges in.


End file.
